


This Is A Mess

by myriadofnothing



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Rare Pairings, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22992115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing
Summary: A no-plot, short porn fic wildly extrapolating from the imaginary subtext and abusing the timeline from Something Beautiful/Talk, featuring sub-leaning Nacho with masochist-leaning Marco.
Relationships: Marco Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	This Is A Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for Better Call Saul season 4 and earlier.
> 
> Explanation of warnings:
> 
> Dubious consent is due to power imbalance and unnegotiated roughness.  
> Sibling incest is referenced but not featured.

Fucking the twins was going to turn out to be a huge mistake, Nacho thought. As if looking over his shoulder after the thing with Hector wasn’t bad enough, now he had this to worry about. Men like Marco and Leonel would kill to keep their masculine reputations intact. And not only did the Salamanca twins fuck men, but they also had a thing with each other, and Nacho was the loose end who had witnessed it in all its muscular glory. At the time, he had compared it with all the other risks he’d taken and stupidly decided it was a lesser one. Now he was walking around with even more anxiety looming over him- another secret, another target on his back.

Nacho suddenly realized that he’d been staring at Marco as he’d been mulling over his forbidden knowledge and Marco was looking right back at him. _Stupid._ He wasn’t exactly proving to them that he could pretend nothing had ever happened. Marco’s eyebrow twitched upward- maybe amused or smug or knowing, or maybe just inquiring what the fuck Nacho’s problem was. Nacho didn’t speak the language of subtle expressions that the twins shared, so he really couldn’t tell. He jerked his attention back to the collections, but a minute later he could still feel Marco’s return stare in his peripheral. He hazarded a glance back over.

Marco inclined his head just a millimeter and seemed to look toward the door to the back rooms without actually breaking eye contact. Then he stepped back and walked out silently. That, at least, was a clear command to follow.

Only Nacho and Leonel seemed to notice his departure. Leonel glanced at his brother but ignored Nacho, then turned back to watch the collections, his face as blank and serious as ever.

Nacho had no choice but to follow the unspoken command and slipped out after him.

His heart had worked itself into a gallop but it did that a lot nowadays, so he ignored it. The back hallway was empty. He followed it to the rear office: a concrete storeroom with a desk. Macro was seated in the desk chair, his long legs spread wide, looking bright in his sharkskin suit amongst all the old, grey dust.

“What is it?” Nacho asked.

Marco quirked his eyebrow again, more exaggerated this time, and squeezed his big hand down the inside of his thigh. Nacho could see the angular distortion in the leg of his suit pants. _Oh._ A bit of tension flowed out of him as he realized Marco’s intentions.

“If you’re coming in, close the door,” Marco said.

With his eyes fixed on Marco’s slowly groping hand, a flush came over him, his body suddenly concerned with all the wrong priorities. He really should politely excuse himself and leave. Fucking the twins had been and still was a terrible idea. No one could know about the three of them- or the two of them- or even just that Nacho had looked that way at another man.

Marco didn’t share his misgivings. He unzipped and fished out his cock. It was dark with blood, thick and heavy looking, and long, too, and Nacho remembered in excruciating vividity how every inch of it had been inside of him. Maybe it was the same flawed thought process that’d gotten him into this to begin with, but he was in for a penny already. He stepped inside and closed the door. The lock clicked when he turned it.

His first movement was to grope for his interested cock- a quick, mutual jerk off would be good- but he immediately changed his mind, because he had just decided he was already in for a penny, hadn’t he?

He crossed to Marco (still carefully watching Marco’s face for a reaction- because he was always vigilant nowadays and couldn’t convince himself to stop) and eased to his knees between the wide cast legs (and by the way Marco’s eyes raked over him, he was more than fine with Nacho’s decision). Marco opened his pants all the way, the leather of his belt moving smoothly through its keepers, and shifted in the chair to push them and his underwear down past his ass. He pulled his shirttails out of the way. Nacho was left with a full, up-close view of him from the tops of his impressive thighs to the trail of hair running up his belly and under his bulletproof vest. Marco pressed the vee between his index finger and thumb to the root of his cock, among the curls of his pubic hair, to point the even darker mushroom tip toward Nacho.

“Don’t make a mess,” he murmured. “Understand?”

Nacho yanked his jeans open because Marco was right- he didn’t need anything incriminating soaking through the fabric.

“Yes,” he said.

The expanse of skin in front of him smelled warm, whatever made him think of that- smelled of clean skin kept trapped under clothing all morning so that a bit of sweat could become musky in his crevasses- and a wisp of earthy-citrus-gardenia that must have been Marco’s cologne.

He hesitated, because he wasn’t well-practiced at this, then took a hold of the silky shaft and licked the head. Marco was hard in his palm and plush where he licked, the musk of sweat stronger this close and the taste of salty precum spreading through his mouth. Arousal burned through his stomach. His tongue licked the sloping tip until it was smooth with saliva; he explored the bumpy crevice under the head. Marco breathed out appreciatively.

Nacho glanced up. Even relaxed in the chair, Marco loomed over him. His mouth was parted, lending the barest softness to his usual hard, empty expression. His legs were walls on either side of him. His left hand was spread on his thigh, still and lax as if it was harmless.

He worked Marco’s cock into his mouth. It was wide, stretching his jaw and his lips, and hefty. The fill of it inside of him brought the memory of Leonel roughly, shallowly fucking his mouth with frustration when Nacho couldn’t take him down his throat. (That was before Marco had diligently worked into his ass inch by inch- once Marco had had him and left him wet and loose, Leonel was able to get the hard, deep fuck he’d wanted.) Nacho pressed downward until Marco’s cock blocked the back of his mouth, reliving the sensation of helplessness, and moaned. Marco groaned with him.

He knew from the burning in his gut that he could come like this, on his knees. He drew a breath through his nose and started to stroke himself, a lusty amount of precum wetting his palm. He closed his lips around the shaft and sucked and swallowed and used the tender comfort of his mouth on Marco’s cock to gratify both of them.

“Your teeth,” Marco urged quietly. Nacho remembered that from before too: the quiet early morning in the hotel; the viscous gush of cum that had overflowed his mouth when he’d scraped his teeth along Marco’s length at his demand.

Marco hissed and jerked as he tentatively (even being told to do it, still tentatively) scraped the insides of his molars along him as he pulled off. “More,” Marco urged, and he did it again, a little more firmly. He let his incisors catch at the flare of the head and scratch down the tip. He looked up to see Marco’s lip twisted in a pleasured grimace that was about three shades away from his ‘eliminating the enemies of the cartel’ face. The jerk of his hips was almost a squirm, a flinch away and a press back closer, looking for more.

He didn’t understand it, but it was easy enough to do.

After a minute, Marco sat forward and reached his left hand around the back of Nacho’s skull. Fingertips pressed in behind one ear and the pad of his thumb behind the other, freezing him with a firm grip. He pushed his cock deeper into Nacho’s mouth- pulled out- and started to thrust. Nacho tensed instinctively, wanting to be able to breathe, his hand that he’d steadied Marco’s cock with blindly pushing away at his belly. But Marco was unyielding and the invasion in his mouth felt really fucking good- rigid flesh rubbing across his lips and tongue and the roof of his mouth, forcing his saliva out of the way, and wiping a trail of precum across his taste buds. In a handful of thrusts, Nacho was relaxing into it, breathing around Marco’s movements, a pool of liquid fire in his belly, and he gave another muffled moan.

Marco wasn’t even being that forceful; it was just a fraction of how hard he could hold, of what he could make Nacho do if he wanted.

He trembled for a moment as his orgasm overtook him, loosing a staccato moan against the rhythmic thrusting that stroked the insides of his mouth. The pleasure was a shock, stunning his muscles taut and then slack. His cock jerked fitfully in his grasp.

Marco twisted the hand holding Nacho’s skull, purposefully sending his cock in at an angle to bludgeon against Nacho’s molars. There was a grunt and then a flood of bitter, bleachy come that surprised Nacho, making him gag and wretch his head aside. Marco released his hold to quickly grasp at his pulsing cock. Nacho twisted and spat his mouthful of cum onto the floor.

A post-orgasmic regret settled over him, spoiling his afterglow, as he took in his situation.

Marco was looking down at him, partly incredulous, partly disapproving, the expression almost absurd on his usually stoic face. He’d caught the rest of his issue in his hand, saving it from splattering over Nacho where he knelt at his feet.

With a tone of mild disapproval that matched his face, he said emphatically, “This is a mess.”

There wasn’t anything obvious to clean up with in the office.

“Shit,” Nacho said. His own come was striped and pooled on the floor under the chair.

Mindful of his sticky right hand, he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, stumbling upright as Marco stared at him coolly, and stripped off his undershirt. He used it to wipe his own hand, then offered it to Marco. He didn’t take it, only continued to stare into Nacho, silent and expectant. Nacho realized that he intended for Nacho to clean his hand for him.

Something cool prickled over him as he did it. It was starkly subordinate. It was almost intimate. Marco wouldn’t stop staring into him.

He used the undershirt to scrape most of the come off Marco’s big palm, having to steady the hand with a cautious grip on his wrist. He used a fresh section to wipe each long, sturdy finger clean. His nails were tidy; there was a knob of a callus on his index finger.

Nacho stepped back and tucked himself away, but Marco didn’t move, just watched, so he had to kneel again and lean into Marco’s space to clean the floor under him. He had an uneasy feeling that he ought to try to save some face, but he couldn’t while the aftershocks of his orgasm were softening him, while Marco was eating his soul with his eyes. Maybe it was smart, maybe it was cowardly, but he didn’t dare. He didn't even speak.

When he stood and replaced his shirt- sans undershirt- Marco tugged up his own pants and stood as well, setting his suit to rights. The tense, threatening intimacy of the moment passed. Nacho waited until Marco was decent before opening the door; he went out the back door to dispose of the incriminating undershirt in the dumpster.

* * *

Nacho slid back into the diner to see Leonel saying something lowly in Marco’s ear, to which Marco nodded. Both of them watched him in unison as he slunk back inside.

This was a huge mistake.

He wanted to do it again.


End file.
